


there is no edge of the world to run to

by embryonic



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dive Bars, F/F, Roadtrip, Tequila, root/shaw/motorcycle ot3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:42:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embryonic/pseuds/embryonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>root and shaw go on a motorcycle ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is no edge of the world to run to

**Author's Note:**

> title from michael beach. 
> 
> (this is set sometime during s3.)

They end up in New Mexico on a whim.

It’s August and scorching out and Shaw’s licking an ice cream cone when Root gets this look in her eye - _Got it,_ she says into thin air, a dangerous smirk on her lips - and hell if Shaw didn’t know what _that_ meant.

_Pack your daisy dukes, Sameen.  We’re going where it’s hot._

_Hotter than this?_ Sameen asks, referring to the hundred degree oven that currently was New York.

Root turns on her heel at that, eyes slightly narrowed, that smirk still playing on her lips. _Nothing,_ she says, dipping her index finger into Shaw’s ice cream cone, _is hotter than this, Sameen._

Shaw is too busy rolling her eyes to watch Root lick the melting vanilla off of her finger.

  _I don’t own any daisy dukes,_ she calls out half-heartedly, but Root’s all ready paces ahead of her, and Shaw knows she’s got no choice but to follow. 

-                                                                   

She was right about it being hot.

What she wasn’t right about was the amount of armed men that would be guarding the number they were supposed to be saving.

 _What,_ Shaw says angrily, pouring a uselessly small bottle of liquor they found in the motel’s mini fridge onto the slash on Root’s forearm, _your precious machine forgot about the extra half dozen men waiting inside?_

 _She knew we could handle it,_ says Root, hissing from the pain. She looks Shaw in the eye and smiles nonetheless.  _Which we did._

Shaw doesn’t bother correcting her; knows that anything she says is just going to be deflected with a sickly sweet antic anyway.  She grits her teeth.  _It’s not too deep,_ she says plainly, securing the bandage with tape and more pressure than necessary, _you’ll be fine._

 _Thanks doctor,_ Root says, hopping off the bed and placing an affectionate hand on her shoulder, _however will I repay you?_

Shaw shrugs the hand away with a grimace.  It’s a bad habit – giving a shit about Root’s recklessness – and she’s still trying to figure out how exactly to deal with it. 

She changes the subject.  _So,_ she starts indignantly, _are we done now?  When’s our flight back to New York?_

 _Oh,_ says Root conspiratorially, _we’re not going home just yet._

_-_

Turns out, they were going on a motorcycle ride instead.

Root passes a helmet to Shaw with a quirk of her brows.  _One of the men we left for dead said we could have it._

 _Right._ Says Shaw, pulling the helmet on, secretly pleased with the turn of events, so long as it meant she got to drive.

 _Well,_ Root winks, _he didn’t say no when I asked._  

Shaw sticks an open palm in front of Root wordlessly, motions _gimmee_ with her hand when she makes no move to drop the key into it.

 _I don’t think so, sweetie,_ says Root sweetly, _you don’t even know where we’re going._

_And you do?_

_Not yet,_ Root admits, _but I’ve got a built in GPS that says you get to ride bitch._

 _Fine,_ Shaw says begrudgingly, _but you owe me._

 _Can’t wait,_ says Root, putting her own helmet on and straddling the bike.

She revs the engine, makes a show of things as they take off from the dingy motel, leaving a wake of dust behind as they do.  

-

They ride for miles on end.

Root doesn’t tell where they’re going and, more importantly, Shaw stops asking when she accepts that it’s pointless, so they go for miles and miles with no end in sight, Shaw’s arms wrapped tightly around Root’s waist, warm wind whipping as they go.  Eventually, they pass the border into Texas and Shaw belatedly recalls that Root has history here.

Not that Root’s ever directly told her anything about her childhood; but she knows things, Sameen does.  She managed to get some information out of Harold about Root’s past when she’d deemed her a an enemy.  A project to keep herself busy.  Who would’ve guessed that she’d ever end up on the back of a bike (blind and willing, no less) with this woman who’d tied her up and nearly pressed an iron to her chest, threatening to steam all of those stubborn creases right out of her.

But, here she was, a tiny speck on this never-ending landscape, streaking through the desert with blind trust and uncharacteristic contentment.  Here she was, with Root. 

And it’s all good and fine for the first hour or so – Shaw’s never minded long drives like these, especially when there’s no mindless talking or lame roadtrip playlists; and it’s nice here.  Flat and dry and wide open.  But eventually her stomach starts growling and she has to pinch Root’s side, hard, to get her to stop somewhere. 

 _Fine,_ she hears Root’s muffled voice concede through the wind.              

They end up at a dive bar just off the highway called The Reno Room that houses a beat up pool table and serves ninety-nine cent tacos which Shaw buys eight of, along with a cheap beer to wash them down. 

It’s nearing six now, and Shaw wonders out loud through a mouthful of carnitas if they’ve got a deadline to get to wherever they were going. 

Root levels her with a look and says, _Whoever said there was a destination, Sameen?_

 _You said –_ Shaw starts, huffing when she realizes what a complete sucker she’s been played for. She shakes her head incredulously. _So what the hell are we doing, Root?_

Root shrugs in that diffident way of hers, _I just wanted to go for a ride.  Enjoy the scenery. Besides,_ she says, picking up a stray piece of meat off of Shaw’s plate and popping it into her mouth, _I heard this place has the best tacos in town._

Shaw follows the other woman’s gaze to the sign above the bar that proudly states just that and shifts her plate out of Root’s reach.  She beckons the bartender over, _I’m gonna need something a little stronger than this,_ she says, motioning toward the tequila.  _And it’s on her._

Root smiles prettily at the bartender. _Make it two._

-

They do three more rounds of shots and it’s only when Shaw finds herself transfixed, watching Root lick the salt off the back of her hand that she admits the alcohol was starting to get to her.  That, and noticing the ever-so-slight drawl that began affecting Root’s speech.

It’s subtle.  Sameen hardly catches at first, but, then, Root says her name - _You look flushed, Sam –_ and she’ll never admit it out loud, but Shaw _knows_ what her name sounds like coming from Root’s lips.  And it’s never included that little twang that it does now. 

She listens for it a while longer; finds it amusing, is all, and – god forbid Root ever found out – kind of endearing.  Root was always so unflinching and self-certain when she spoke.  Always perfectly poised with those carefully crafted syllables.  But, now, she’s got another sort of spoken poise, an easy drawl that’s probably due to the alcohol just as much as it is to listening to the other patrons in the bar, who all have that same affect, albeit much stronger. 

 _What?_ Says Root eventually, elbow lazily propping her head up on the bar as she eyes Sameen, who’s been caught looking, because she’s like a puzzle, this woman – all intricate edges and impossible facades.  _Tell me._

Shaw smirks.  It’s hardly ever like this – Shaw staring and Root wondering why – because so often it’s the other way around.  _You just seem to fit in pretty well here, is all._

Root matches her smirk, leans back against the bar.  _Funny,_ Root says.  _I always felt out of place here._

It’s more honest an answer than Shaw was expecting.  But maybe that was her projecting.  Either way, it piques her curiosity.  _Is that so,_ she just says. 

Root nods, once.  _The people here,_ she tells Shaw, _do not understand the world for what it is._

 _And what’s that?_ asks Shaw in a low voice, as if caught up in a secret. 

 _You know,_ says Root as though it’s apparent, _Just one big series of impulses.  It’s all chaos out there, Sameen.  And here,_ Root looks around at the other people left hanging around the bar.  One of them spits into a cup.  Root looks back at Shaw.  _They’ve got no idea the big mess they’re all caught up in._

Shaw eyes the other woman.  Patsy Cline starts singing “Crazy” through the jukebox and a small part of Shaw wonders if Root somehow instructed The Machine to do that.  (A small part of Shaw is always wondering about Root and that Machine, as if they’re in on something she doesn’t know about.)

_Is that why you left?_

Root shrugs.  _Among other things._ She moves out of her seat at that, leans in all close and predatory like she knows Shaw can’t stand.  _Wanna get out of here?_

Shaw can smell the tequila on her breath at this proximity, feels a warm hum throughout her body as if she’s taken another shot.  _Fine, she_ concedes softly, moving even closer, still, because it’s no fair that Root gets to have _all_ the fun.  She stands to match her, getting impossibly closer, and Patsy’s crooning, all weepy and candid, _why do I let myself worry,_ and Shaw remembers she hates this song.

She dangles the keys she’d picked from Root’s pocket between them.   _But I get to drive this time._

And then all that space is between them again, wide and open and endless as Shaw walks out the door into the night. 

_I’m crazy,_ she’ll swear she hears Root whisper, later, when they’re speeding through all that flat land and she’s got long arms wrapped around her waist.   She speeds up and settles into Root’s embrace.  But, it was probably just the wind, she thinks, and this is all just a series of impulses.


End file.
